


Treacherous Slope

by madamnovelist



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, High Priestess Zelda Spellman, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Pansexual Character, Praise Kink, Self-Insert, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29398527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamnovelist/pseuds/madamnovelist
Summary: Professors fuck students all the time. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. She may be a powerful witch – scratch that, she’s the most powerful witch of my time – but she’s made of flesh and bones as well, isn’t she? I just need to find out which buttons I need to push.
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 163
Kudos: 75





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Four Lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875698) by [LaMarwy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaMarwy/pseuds/LaMarwy). 



> I don't really know wtf am I doing. I'm a novelist, I don't write in first person, so I really appreciate honest feedback and if you guys don't like it I'll drop it and go back to write my usual stuff :D   
> it's supposed to be made of quick chapters, one for every weekday, as I (!) come closer to the High Priestess. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I've marked this work as inspired by Four Lines by my friend LaMarwy because this is only her fault. Of course, the two things are NOTHING like each other. Well, if you wanna read a superb x reader, read hers.

**Treacherous Slope**

**_Out of focus, eye to eye_ **

**_'Til the gravity's too much_ **

**_And I'll do anything you say_ **

**_If you say it with your hands_ **

**_And I'd be smart to walk away_ **

**_But you're quicksand_ **

**_Monday_ **

****

I look intently at my reflex in the mirror, trying to decide if my outfit – the tenth try – can do. I still have some doubts. I thank Hecate for a second that I’m the only one left in the dormitory, so I can change ten tank tops and decide between a wide range of skirts which lengths varied by a couple of inches with all the tranquility in the world. Well, almost, considering that it’s almost Satanic Choir’s hour, I’m the leading Alto and the Professor doesn’t appreciate tardiness.

I know I’m mental – I _know_ this. And yet, I can’t help it.

If I am mental, it’s only High Priestess Zelda Spellman’s fault.

Professors fuck students all the time. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. She may be a powerful witch – scratch that, she’s the most powerful witch of my time – but she’s made of flesh and bones as well, isn’t she? I just need to find out which buttons I need to push.

I’m perfectly content with the corset I chose: it’s black and grey, lace and low-cut, and exposes my full breasts perfectly. I hang a necklace around my neck, and it falls perfectly where it should. I’m just not sure about what to put on top: a loose cardigan or a fitting jacket? I don’t really know. I’m not sure about the skirt either: it’s short and tight, it clings to my thigh. I’m not fat, neither I am thin: I suppose I can call myself curvy. Yet, I’ve been told that the most attractive thing, in a woman, is how self-confident she is. Which, of course, I am not, but I can only hope I’m able to play a part.

My make-up is fine, the dark violet lipstick perfectly applied, the exact shade of my hair. I let it loose on my shoulders, and with a finger I slide my pair of black glasses up my nose, framing the forest green eyes. Of course, the nose ring is turned upside down once again, so I take another second to fix it. Okay. Deep breaths. I grab the cardigan – I don’t want everyone else at the Academy to know how hard I’m trying - and I leave the room, walking toward the choir room, my heart beating loudly in my chest.

_She_ is already there, of course. But this time – _thanks, Hecate, praise Hecate_ – she’s alone.

I’ve tried this every day, last week, but that damn Elspeth is always there fifteen minutes before me. Probably, the blotches spell I’ve cast on her it’s probably paying back. I bite down on a smirk as I drink in her glorious figure, every thought of Elspeth leavening my mind. She’s wearing a fitting dark blue dress which flatters her figure perfectly. It may be a figure of speech as old as times but my mouth literally waters as I watch her legs, her hips, her red curls, her big green eyes. Her breasts – oh, Hecate, her breasts, high, full, and glorious. And when she smiles at me… I need to have her. I need to be hers. Even if just for once, I need. And I know, I need to play my cards as better as I can.

Soon, because this High Priestess thing is becoming a prominent issue. Not only because I have wet dreams possibly every night (I had to put a silencing spell on myself, if you know what I mean), but I’ve started to carry a fresh pair of panties in my pocket because, after every meeting with Zelda Spellman, I have to pay a visit to the restrooms.

She’s poison, but if I have to die from her charm, if I have to die from her scent – take me, Hecate, for I’m ready and willing.

“Blessed morning, Mother Spellman,” I greet, in a wording I learned from Hilda Spellman and I find always very cute and polite. Then, I grimace: I won’t turn her on if I remind her of her sister, won’t I? I roll my plump bottom lip between my white, slightly irregular teeth, and it should be a flirting move but I’m pretty sure I look just plain dumb. I can’t do this. But, before I can run away, she smiles back at me, her features coming to life. She’s so perfect. She’s so beautiful I feel my insides consume themselves. My hands tingle for I want to touch her hair so bad.

“Morning, Miss,” she replies, then she comments: “Oh! What a marvelous corset!”

Her eyes slide down my torso and – oh boy. Wetness forms between my legs and I know I can say goodbye to another pair of lacy thongs no spell is going to be able to save.

Does she like breasts? Does she like _my_ breasts? Or is she’s only staring at my corset like she just declared?

“Thank you”, I murmur, and she nods, and when she does, a subtle scent of good tobacco caresses my nostrils. I want her to stump a cigarette on one of my breasts. And I don’t even like physical pain with my pleasure. But, you see, the Academy is like a small village: everyone knows everything about anyone. Even about the High Priestess. And if she wants to hurt me, she can do whatever she wants to me. I just need her to claim me. I need her to _want_ me.

I look at her longingly, but she takes me completely by surprise, spitting: “Well, what are you doing here? Do you need to be escorted to your position or you think you can manage with your own legs?”

Oh, her mood swings. I’m ripping down my thighs to the point that I want to throw myself on the table and offer to be her meal.

Once, a mortal friend taught me the expression _getting it bad_ , and it should probably mean being deep with another person. Well, I’ve got it _really_ bad.

She moves her hand in the direction of the Satanic Choir, where people are starting to gather. I spot Prudence Blackwood and Sabrina Spellman and I share a smile with them both. If I wasn’t so engrossed with the effect the High Priestess has on me, I’d thank Hecate that people seem to like me that much, because what I’m trying to do it’s pretty obvious. They tease me about it, late at night, poking my hips with a single finger, whispering obscenities or faking my voice as I moan the High Priestess’ name. Like I would ever be able to call her Zelda.

I snap back to reality and trying _hard_ to avoid thinking about how much I want those boney, perfect fingers in my cunt, I collect myself and walk to my spots, between the altos. Silently, careful that everyone is actually too busy to pay attention to me, I snap two fingers and I’m dry once again. I sigh.

_Hecate, help me._

But, as my voice joins her sopranos one, and I sing the lowest keys, our eyes lock and I think maybe, just maybe, a hint of a smile ghosts on her lips. Perhaps it’s not as impossible as I fear.

I need her to fuck me before the end of the week.


	2. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, thank you so much for the response to the first chapter! I hope that's okay as well. <3

**_Tuesday_ **

****

This morning I look like shit and I am perfectly aware of it.

The factors are mainly two: the first are the seven thousand words of the Latin translation I have to present by Friday. In the High Priestess’ office. Alone. You see, Zelda Spellman teaches Ancient Tongues and leads the Satanic Choir and I happen to excel in both things. But this – this is hard work. We don’t just have to just translate an insane number of words of the False God’s Bible, we also have to present an essay about free will. Naturally, I am beyond late in my work (even if everyone else declares they will do it on Thursday), because I really, _really_ want to impress her, and on the other side, I am stressed because we’ll be alone in her office, and I’ll only be able to think – well, we know what I’ll be able to think.

The second factor causing me to look like crap is that tonight I barely slept. I spent the first half of my night working on _The Vulgata_ , and then I went to bed and replayed how many times as humanly – and witchy – possible how she had told me she liked my corset, how she had smiled at me. I masturbate and I came twice just by a random compliment and a smile, and I can’t help but wonder what will happen to me if she’ll ever lay a hand on me.

This morning I chose a pair of black dress pants under which I hide a pair of Dr. Martens, a corset even more revealing than the day before, and a fitting jacket. The refreshing spell I cast on my face and the extra care I spent in applying my foundation obviously hadn’t paid back because as I collect my curls in a high ponytail to go to Choir once again, my face is pale and tired, and my burgundy lipstick makes me look even sicker. At least, the lipstick is the same shade of red as my boots, and I’m sure a witch like Zelda Spellman appreciates these kinds of things.

Fuck, I’m late. She won’t like this – she won’t like this one bit. And of course, as I run inside the room, sliding between my companions to take my place, she shoots me a killing gaze.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” she tells me, looking at me as I am a cockroach. “And what in Hecate’s name happened to you? You look like you just emerged from my Cain Pit.”

A blush takes over my cheeks. As much as I love when she goes feral, I don’t appreciate her telling me I look like shit.

 _Crap._ This is all the False God’s fault and his damn Bible. And my fucking attitude to always be a damn perfectionist.

As I am scolding myself, she clears her throat and looks directly at me: “Anyway, before you blessed us with your presence, I was telling your classmates I have a sore throat, so I need someone to sing the scale for me. Do you think you can go that high?”

I am an Alto like I said, but a peculiar one: my voice can go really deep and really high, so I can sing a Soprano’s piece. Maybe not effortlessly, but I can do it. I look puzzled at Sabrina, her niece, who is a nice Soprano and could easily sing the scale. Sabrina just smiles back at me and I ask myself no further questions. I straighten my back and I look into the High Priestess’ fiery green eyes, taking a fraction of seconds to appreciate the gorgeous burgundy suit she’s wearing. I smirk, as I consider that we’re matching, and I declare: “Yes, I do, Mother Spellman.”

The first note starts, she gives me the sign and I close my eyes and sing, tuning my voice to the clear, beautiful key she always uses:

_Let’s start at the very beginning_

_A very good place to start –_

_When you read you begin with ABC_

_When you sing you begin with do-re-mi…_

I inhale again and praying to Hecate to assist me, I sing the scale: _do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti_ … I keep the _ti_ as high, long, and steady as I can, and thankfully when my voice dies and I start with the following verse, the choir joins me.

Perfect time. Perfect key. I can’t tell but grin, quite proud of myself, and – Hecate, help me – she smirks back. Subtly.

I’m such an idiotic fangirl, I consider as I approach the door, sad that the lesson is over and that I can’t spend my miserable life singing ditties as I stare at her irresistible breasts and her gorgeous backside. Ass, I might as well think ass. I’m about to pass by her unnoticed, when she turns around and unexpectedly calls my name: “Ellen.”

She rarely does. My Hecate, my common name feels so good, so sinful on her lips. I smile and I nod. “Hello, Mother Spellman,” I greet, and I’m about to leave when she says: “You may look like Heaven, and Hecate knows you do, but your voice is straight on point. And you know how rarely I compliment any of you.”

My heart flips, my cunt gets wet, and I smile brightly: “I know. That’s why this compliment is even dearer, to me,” I dare say, and I place both hands on the edge of her desk, pushing blatantly forward my breasts, hoping she would look. She barely glances at them but it’s enough to have me dripping down my thighs as I imagine her delicious mouth on my breasts, ruining them with stains of her lipstick.

Heaven, my pants.

“Why do you look like this?” she asks, as I try my best to gain back some control and not to come here and now.  
“I stayed up too late working on the translation,” I shrug, moving away from a rebel violent curl. Crap, I must indeed look like shit.

She raises a perfect eyebrow and comments: “On Tuesday? Already?”

I don’t have any shame left. “You know how good I want to do for you,” I reply, showing some modesty as I blush and bite down my lip, the picture of the perfect schoolgirl.

“I know,” she smirks. “Such a good student. And with a great taste in clothes, I may add.”

I skip the following class to masturbate three times in the restroom on the first floor to the sound of her voice telling me what a good _girl_ I am.


	3. Wednesday

_** Wednesday  ** _

I trace the last letter and I look at my work. Okay, I think I have the basics down. I even did my best to focus on the task at hand, and I lifted my head to look at her focused face as she grades some paper, my heart swelling, just twice. I’m getting better. 

Of course, luck is not on my side because, at the end of the ten minutes she’s granted us for a quick revision, she raises her face and looks over the classroom. 

“Ellen,” she calls at some point. “To the blackboard, please?”

Oh, Hecate.

Like every time I have to see professor Spellman, I'm dressed on point, and today I'm wearing a high-collared polka-dotted shirt and a short, tight skirt, which would be considered obscene among mortals but it’s just right among witches.

Have I mentioned that I love being a witch?

As I walk to the board, I feel my classmates’ eyes on me and I hope I look okay and that I can manage to do what I'm required to do without making a fool of myself.

I take place next to the board and I dare smile at the High Priestess, who smiles back at me. 

Considering that I was well aware of what might happen today, last night I found an old remedy: it basically consists of washing your private parts with a mix of belladonna and some other herbs and it was supposed to... Avoid getting too excited, so to speak. As Zelda Spellman turns and smiles at me, I have the proof that even if I have a whole greenhouse in my pants, it’s not helping one bit. Crap. 

“So, can you please write down the Hebrew Alphabet for us?” she asks, her voice poison down my spinal cord. 

I nod and I turn my back to her, trying to forget that she's looking at me or I won’t be able to work. I trace the Aleph, then I proceed, slow but pretty steady. I hesitate on the sixth letter, and she softly tuts behind my back. Despite the summer pool, complete with balloons and umbrellas, forming in my panties, I correct the letter. When I'm done, I step back and I avidly drink the satisfied expression on her stunning face as she checks that everything is fine.

“Perfect. Twenty-two beautifully written signs, I must say. And --”

“Those two are semi-consonants, ” I say, indicating the letters I'm referring to, anticipating her question. I trace the first letter: “The Aleph is the beginning of it all - that’s why the False God named the First Man Adam. It starts with that. Much like the Alpha for the Greeks.”

Praying so hard that she doesn’t ask more about the Greek Alphabet (as much as I like to show off, as much as I am good in Latin, I'm completely stupid when it comes to Greek,) I move to the fifth letter: “This represents the connection between feminism and motherhood and the innate knowledge, ” I explain, then I add, blushing like just her can make me blush: “I thought it was a beautiful concept.”

I’m a show-off, I'm a terrible I-know-it-all, I know it and I hate myself, but I will willingly go to Heaven, I will take all the hate from my classmates if it means  that look on her face.

Her eyes shine as she murmurs: “Very beautiful, indeed.”

Oh, Hecate, how I wish she would say so looking at me, naked under her, naked and captive under whatever spell she wishes to use on me.

“At least one of you has a way with Ancient Tongues, ” she sighs, and with a gesture of her hand, I know I'm dismissed.

As I walk back to my spot, my legs are made of jelly and my belly is on fire.

How much longer can I last?


	4. Thursday

**_Thursday_ **

Thursday is the worst day of the week. 

No Satanic Choir. No Latin. No Ancient Greek. No Hebrew. Also, the High Priestess rarely leaves her office, so the possibility of “casually” running into her during the day is very close to zero.

On the other hand, there is one positive side even on a Thursday is the fact that since _it is_ Thursday, I can walk around in leggings, a sweatshirt, and no make-up. A relief, considering that I walk around every day as close as naked as witchy as possible, trying to catch her gaze. 

I walk out of Demonology, mood as dark and stormy as the weather itself, and I run into Melvin, looking at his weirdest (and his ugliest, even if today I look like crap myself).

“Hey, Ellie!”

“It’s Ellen, Melvin, we’re not in kindergarten,” I scold, rolling my eyes. 

“Sorry! Well, how are you?”

“Out of three hours of Demonology and as you know, Professor Blackwood is my favorite,” and I can't help but roll my eyes again. 

He grinned and I sigh: “Do you need anything?”

“The High Priestess asks to see you in her office immediately,” he states.

My heart drops into my stomach. The High Priestess. Into her office. Right now. 

I’m about to start feeling over the moon, but then I look down and I see my grey leggings. I consider running into my dorm to quickly change my clothes and do my makeup, but Melvin probably reads my face good, because he comments: “She said _immediately_.”

I know what that means. Immediately. She knows my schedule (she knows everyone's schedule), so she’s aware I'm off Demonology. Scratch that, she knows I’ve been out of it for more than ten minutes.

_I have to run._

“Okay,” I sigh. “Thanks, Melv!”

Honestly - as I run toward her office, I should probably ask myself what she wants, but the only thing I can do is ask myself what I have on _under_ the leggings. This morning I threw on the first thing I found, and I'm pretty sure I’m not wearing any set. As I turn around a dark corner, I promptly remove the hem of the pants and I discover a black cotton thong. Ok, it could have been worse. I peek inside the sweatshirt: ok, at least it matches. It’s not what I want Zelda Spellman to peel off me, but let’s be honest: leggings. No make-up. Who am I kidding?

I take a couple of deep breaths and then I knock, and when her clear, strong voice declares: “Come on in!” my belly twists in pleasure. For a second, I forget about my appearance and I focus on the greatness of seeing her on a Thursday. I get in, and she’s standing next to her desk, wearing a pair of black dress pants that hug her curves _perfectly_ , and a white blouse. 

_Holy Hecate._

The smile she’s sporting becomes a grin when she sees me: “Ah, Ellen. You took your sweet time - surely not to get yourself presentable.”

I’m blushing terribly. I know I am.

“Sorry, Mother Spellman,” I mutter. “Did you require to see me?”

“I did. Take a seat, child.”

I do as I am told, but she stays up and approaches my sit, placing her hand on my chair. I love her hands, did I mention this? Veins on display, strong and elegant, fingers long with short and perfectly manicured nails. I look at it and I can't help imagining those fingers trailing over my cunt, while her perfect mouth slides up my neck and -

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. I want the Choir to sing the piece we tried the other day during the Service, on Sunday, and I wanted to check if you would be interested in doing a Solo.”

I was wet before. Now, I'm _dripping._

“Oh my Hecate! Yes, Mother Spellman,” I immediately affirm, before I backtrack: “Well, I would love to do it, but my voice has been kind of… all over the place, recently. Maybe I just need to rest it a bit.”  
The High Priestess sighs, her chest going up and down in a beautiful sight. I’d give ten years of my life away in a wink, just to see her naked breasts. I find her perfect – whole and complete. She’s juicy and looks so damn tasty but Hell, her breasts. Can I be obsessed with her and feel a whole other kind of obsession for her boobs? Because I think I do.

“Very well, let’s see how bad the problem is.”

I look at her, completely lost. What am I suppose to –

“Stand, of course!” she spits. “Stand and sing a scale, I don’t have the whole day, for Hecate’s sake.”

I tentatively form a _do_ , but after I sing the _re_ and the _mi_ she quickly takes place next to me and hisses: “Did you forget overnight how to sing? Straight your back, girl!”

It’s a matter of a second – she places one hand on the small of my back and the other on my lower, belly, pressing on it so the _fa_ comes out loud, vigorous and perfectly in key.

Well, the note is not the only thing coming loud, I think I might do so as well if she doesn’t remove her hands from my body _immediately._ And yet, on the other side, I don’t care if I make a fool of myself: I need her to touch me forever. I _want_ her to touch me forever.

“Your voice is perfectly fine,” she scoffs, taking a few steps back as I _whine_. “You’re just lazy, today. I expect you to practice this non-stop until Sunday and to make me proud. The fact that we don’t normally use corporal punishment on the students doesn’t mean that I’m not capable of _spanking_ you.”

Wait – what?

“Am I clear?”

“Yes, professor,” I whine again, and when she nods: “Good girl,” I’m afraid to look down: there’s no way in Hell I haven’t made a pool on the floor.


	5. Friday

**_Friday_ **

****

Today it’s the day.

I haven’t slept a wink, but who cares?

I spent my whole night working on my essay (which I’ve finished on Tuesday night, but details) and when I finally decide that it’s time to part myself from my books, I spend an _eternity_ getting ready.

Today, we’re supposed to discuss our essays with her. Alone. In her office. After this information, it’s not that hard to understand _why_ I changed ten outfits before I set on a short black skirt, a lace corset, and boots. What takes literally forever is my hair – my hair is thick, curly, on the frizzy side, and _a lot._ And when I say a lot, I mean tons and tons of hair. I normally wear them naturally curly, but I feel like today is such a special day, I spend one hour straightening it. Therefore, when I arrive at her office, there is a very long line, and I realize that I’m going to spend my morning in line. How nice.

I spend one hour and a half reading my essay over and over, top to bottom, bottom to top. Then, the last person goes inside, and I walk back and forth in the hall, hands two sponges, salivation close to zero, cold drops down her back. I am _desperate_ to go inside and at the same time, I fear that moment.

And then, the student before me is coming out of Zelda Spellman’s office, eyes blood-shot red, and I sigh. What if she’s in a bad mood and that idiot before me had spoiled my long-desired morning?

After a few seconds, while I wonder if I should go inside or run away, she barks from her office: “Come in, next one! I don’t have the whole bloody day!”

Bloody? Is that Zelda or Hilda? Anyway, I don’t have other choices, so I shrug and go inside, smiling: “Good morning, Mother Spellman.”

The annoyed expression on her face becomes a smile when she sees me: “Oh, someone smart at last. Also, looking nicer than usual.”

I don’t know if this means that I always look like crap while today I look decent or if I always look nice, and today _more_. But of course, my belly fills with lava as I bathe in her high and whisper: “You look breathtaking, Mother Spellman. Every day.”

I blush and I don’t even care.

She smirks and gestures to the chair on the other side of her desk: “I know, child. Now sit down, wipe your drool and hand me the essay.”

I should be embarrassed. I know I should. And yet, I let out a giggle before I sit down and take off my leather bag my essay, twenty pages neatly written.

“And they say brevity is the soul of wit,” she comments, as she takes the papers.

“I know, but I had so much to say,” I try to justify myself.

She starts reading, silently, raising an eyebrow or letting out a delicious _hum_ when she reads something that catches her attention particularly. In the meantime – of course, I stare at her. I study every detail of her face, not the slightest surprised that I can’t get enough of watching her, of being this close to her, that her scent caresses my nostrils from the other side of the desk. She is – I don’t have words to describe how perfect she is. Her big, deep green eyes, her pouty lips, the slight cleft in her chin.

I might wet the chair again, I realize, sighing.

Then, she raises her hand and with the way she looks at me, I’m _sure_ I’m wetting the chair.

“This is magnificent work,” she tells me, and for the first time, she’s not joking or smirking or grinning. “The best I’ve read today.”

She stands up and starts strolling around her own office, making some considerations and asking me questions.

The only moments in which I’m able to control my arousing and the extreme way in which I’m attracted to her (to the point of almost being obsessed, but recognizing the problem is the first step toward healing, isn’t it?) is when we talk academic things.

“Very good,” she comments at some point, nodding as she slides up her desk, sitting in a corner of the big woody table. Of course, the movement exposes her supple thigh and I just want to have the courage to reach out and spread her legs to feast _in between_.

“Stand up,” she commands, smirking, and I get up willingly like a fucking dog before her word _up_ is out her lips. She looks at me, intently, and I swear I’m about to melt under her sight. Then, she reaches out and fiddles with a button on my jacket.

“Yours was the best essay. And I appreciate intelligence. Especially when it comes in such a pretty package.”

My breath dies in my throat.

Her hand moves to my face and she raises my chin with a finger, then trails it down my neck.

I’ve never been so aroused in my life. The spot between my thighs is a mess, my underwear completely ruined, and my wetness is pooling down my legs, almost reaching the top of my stockings.

If she touches my chest, I’m a goner.

My eyes devour her face, her upper body, her exposed thigh, and I want to touch her so badly, my hand tingles.

“You want to touch me?” she whispers as if she could read my mind. I nod so strongly I fear my head might fall off my neck.

“Do it, won’t you? Place your hand on my hip,” she instructs, and I’m sure I’m about to wake up in my bed, alone and frustrated. My hand trembles but I do so, and the texture of her shirt under my hand is a whole new level of sexiness.

“So, good work should get rewarded, don’t you think?” she asks in a murmur, and I can’t help but inches my head close to hers. I close my eyes as I inhale the scent of her breath.

I feel like dying, and if death is anything like this, it’s comparable to the most powerful orgasm.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“I want to be yours,” I say, a strangled moan. She can do to me whatever she wants. I have no power. I have no will. I just want her.

She cups my jaw with her cold hands and – a knock at her door.

_Fuck fuck fuckety fucking fuck._

I jump bad, and she groans: “Yes, come in.”

It’s Professor Blackwood. Fuck him. Fuck my life.

He starts talking and I grab my bag and get off.


	6. Saturday

**_Saturday_ **

Surprisingly, last night I slept peacefully.

Not that this helps in any way: I woke up in the worst mood ever, barely talking to anyone. Thankfully, Sabrina and Prudence are out of the dorm before I could even slur a _Good morning._ The first thing I see when I woke up, before even opening my eyes, is her face close to mine as I picture a kiss it hasn’t happened.

I’ve been robbed.

Fuck Professor Blackwood, I can’t believe I was in the High Priestess’ office – ok, no, I was in the High Priestess’ office, about to be _kissed_ by the High Priestess, with my hand on her hip, and I was smelling the bewitching scent of her breath.

Have I already said that I’ve been robbed?

Have I already said that Professor Blackwood deserves to go to Heaven?

Plus, today is a Saturday, and of course, this means no classes. Much like Thursdays. The Academy is almost desert, everyone out for fun, and the only fun _I_ can get is going back to yesterday, to that office, so close to the High Priestess.

I angrily get off my bed and I decide that I might as well organize my day, so I get dressed (jeans and a cute tee, and I do my make up because Thursday has taught me well) and I go fetch myself some breakfast, bringing a book with me. Of course, I don’t read past thirty lines because every time someone enters the room, I raise my head because I think (I hope?) it’s her. It never is.

After I finish my breakfast, I realize that Saturday has one perk: I can have the choir room to myself. The least I can do is practice for tomorrow’s Solo because there is no way in Hell I’m going to fail that. So, I slowly walk to the room, even if I’m still in such a bad mood.

Now, to go to the choir room, I have to pass in front of the High Priestess’ office. Should I knock? Should I – I stop. I have a great idea, so I go back to the kitchen to get her a coffee. I mean, I’ve been studying her movements for a month, so I definitely know she’d be in her study doing boring paperwork. And I know how she takes her coffee (black, one sugar, I heard her tell so to someone, once). The bigger problem is that I’m a coward, and I don’t have the face to show up in her office, on a Saturday morning, making it clear that I got out of bed with the mere purpose to bring her coffee. Do I care? No. I don’t.

I knock at her door and after a few seconds her voice calls: “Come on in!”

I open the door, balancing the mug, but she merely raises her head.

“’ Morning, Mother Spellman,” I greet, and then, she looks at me and smiles: “Hello, Ellen. Oh, what do we have here?”  
“I brought you a coffee,” I smile. “May I approach the desk?”

She looks at me for a while, I can’t tell if she’s stern or angry or pleasured.

“Are you asking if you can approach me?”

I don’t know what takes over me: I don’t reply, I don’t ask again, I just approach her desk and places the mug on the table.

There’s something peculiar this morning: I feel comfortable with her. More than I usually do. So, this is why I lean my hip against the wood of the desk, and I watch as she drinks her coffee. She does it slowly, in a way that makes my toes curl.

This morning, she’s wearing a simple, tight black dress with a red necklace, and I particularly love how that dress fits her. I also love that I remember most of her wardrobe.

“Jeans and a t-shirt,” she comments, looking up and down my body in a way that makes me want to straddle her.

I want my kiss. I want the fucking kiss Faustus Blackwood took from me. I want to touch her hair. I want – _I need something._

“It’s the weekend,” I murmur, and it’s the most stupid thing I can possibly say.

“And yet you’re in your Directrix’s office?” she comments, raising a perfect eyebrow. Her hands are everywhere: she fixes the sleeve of my tee, tugs at the cotton, brings me closer hooking her finger into the hem of my jeans.

I’m burning in hellfire and nothing has ever felt this good. I’m so close to her I can still smell the shampoo in her hair. I can’t believe what’s happening. This body doesn’t feel like mine, and yet it does, desperately so.

I don’t say anything back, of course. I don’t think I’m capable of speaking. She just grins, letting me go.

“I know what you want, now,” she nods. “And this implies that you are in my power, don’t you think?”

I blush a little, but I don’t dare move my eyes from hers. Actually, I don’t know if I’m stupid or bold, but I look at her perfect face and say: “I don’t care.”

Now, she’s touching my hair, smiling at my revelation. She gently tugs at the end of my ponytail. It makes tingle part of my body I didn’t know I had. Parts I didn’t know could tingle.

“You’ll get what you want. _If_ you are a good girl and sing for me a perfect Solo.”

She’s still tugging at my hair, bringing my head close and closer and suddenly her lips are on mine and she’s kissing me, slow and wet and she tastes too delicious and my cunt is dripping like a fucking waterfall and I just can’t believe it and _fuckfuckfuck_ – I raise my hand to touch her, to grab her, to _anything_ , but she pushes me away, licks her lips and tells me: “Go practice, like a good girl,” and she looks back at her paperwork.


	7. Sunday

**_Sunday_ **

****

The Service has just ended, and I can say that my Solo was pretty decent.

I don’t have the time to move – as I remain alone, she’s next to me and she places her hand on her shoulder.

Her scent.

Her voice in my ear.

“You did a marvelous work, darling. Voice of a demoness. Come to the Mortuary. Good work should get rewarded and I suspect you’d love a cup of tea.”

I do. Indeed.

I walk inside the Mortuary, looking around suspiciously as if I’m a thief. I mean, it’s Sabrina’s home, but allegedly she isn’t here. Why am _I_ here, instead of at the Academy?

“Good to see you,” she says after me, and I literally jump in the air.

“A little nervous, aren’t we?” she comments as she walks toward me, gesturing me to the kitchen.

I’ve never been here before – the kitchen is comfortable, green, and warm, and I like it immediately. And yet, what am I doing here?

For a second, I actually contemplate that she would put a kettle on, but instead, she just stops next to the countertop and looks at me.

“Come here and kiss me,” she orders, looking at me.

I gasp: I’m not sure I’ve heard her. Has she really –

“Do you really think I didn’t notice the way you’ve tried to catch my attention? The way your little sweet cunt wet the chair in my office?”

I can’t believe my ears. I look at her, eyes two pools, as she smirks: “How many times in the last week you’ve touched yourself thinking of me?”

I don’t know what’s happening. I just hear my voice, and it says back: “Every day.”

She moans. She _moans._ I take a step forward and when she takes my wrist, I throw everything out of the window and kiss her, greedily sucking at her bottom lip.

“Good girl,” she murmurs on my mouth as I’m already drowning in pleasure. “You’ve spent all week flashing me those big boobs…”

I’m touching her – I touch her hair, and her neck, and her shoulders. I don’t dare go further, but she’s clearly thinking otherwise because she quickly tears apart the blouse I’m wearing, moves away one of the cups of my bra, and puts her mouth on my breast.

 _She puts her mouth on one of my fucking tit,_ and I throw my head back, a cry erupting from my lips.

“Do you like it?” she smirks like a cat, releasing my boob.

“Oh my God,” I whine. “Please, _please_ fuck me, take me, do whatever you want to me.”

“Oh, I will,” she nods, bringing me close to herself as I find the courage to cup her waist. “I’ll spank you and I’ll fuck you hard and fast. But first, don’t you want to be a nice girl for your Directrix?”

I nod enthusiastically. “I’ll do anything for you,” I declare, and I am too gone, I find myself placing little wet kisses along her jawline.

She hops on the counter and spreads her legs, gesturing down with her head, and oh, Hecate, what choices do I have? I perfectly know what she wants me to do.

I kneel. In my dreams I always pictured her going down on me, so I don’t know where I find the strength to move her skirt, touch the white skin of her thighs. She’s a magnet, she’s the strongest spell, and I gingerly reach to remove her thong, leaving her bare and wet in front of me.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks breathlessly after I’m silently studying her for a second, and I’m drawn to her, as I kiss her lips once more and I trail my fingers down her dripping pussy.

“Oh Hecate,” I whisper on her lips. “You are so wet,” I state the obvious.

“It’s your fault,” she whispers. “Now, be a good girl and make your Directrix come.”

Of course, I drop on my knees and bury my face in her cunt, my nose on her clit as I inhale her scent.

She’s addicting.

She’s perfect.

She’s pure poison.

I don’t even bother taking time to work a strategy, think if she’ll like this or not, I just start feasting and I eat, greedily, hungrily, eager to please, eager to make her feel good, to make her come. I lick her labia, I slide my tongue inside of her a couple of times, I swirl it around her clit.

“Use your fingers, too, darling, won’t you?” she moans breathlessly, fingers gripping my hair as her thighs embrace my neck.

It’s Hell.

It’s pure perfection.

She comes on my tongue and I keep sucking her clit until she moves me away.

“Very nice,” she smirks, moving her red hair from her forehead as I devour her face, gone with lust and desire. “I always wondered what that talented little tongue was capable of.”

The fact that she’s content with her orgasm makes me even more aroused, as I push myself forward and kiss, mouth tongue, and teeth, and as she tastes herself and moans, between my thighs is going on something that the word _wet_ doesn’t even begin to cover.

I’m too mad, too gone. I start tugging at the upper part of her dress, and she grins: “Oh, yes. I know what you want. I noticed how you stared at my bust.”

It’s a matter of a second, and her dress is gone and she’s staring in front of me in a lacy black bra and just her stocking.

Tentatively, like a child in front of something magical, I trace her nipple through the cup of her bra, then I move it away and bend my head to suck at her nipple.

She reaches behind me and unexpectedly slaps hard one of my butt-cheeks. It makes my pussy squeeze around nothing and I can’t help but bite her nipple.

She whimpers and I moan, and she slaps my ass again, my mouth leaving her nipple just to move and engulf in my mouth the other tit, my nails digging in the supple flesh of her waist so hard I might be leaving bruises on her.

When my ass burns so much it must be red, when I think I can’t take any more pleasure than being buried in her chest, she hugs me closer and reaches behind to trace my folds with her fingers.

“Such a good girl,” she murmurs, caressing my hair and my pussy at the same time, as I lavish her breasts with attention. “So eager to please.”

She fucks two fingers in my core and thrusts, and I come almost immediately, sucking her nipple hard as she whimpers another “Good girl.”

And now I know, as I move my head from her breasts and look at her face, already begging for another orgasm, that I’ve been lying to myself: I can’t possibly be satisfied with just one time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand it's the end.  
> this was so hard and different to write but I'm happy I've done it. and I'm so grateful you liked it that much! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Instagram & twitter: madamnovelist


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